


All the Space, and Time

by arrow (esteefee)



Series: Mercy [2]
Category: due South
Genre: Angst, April Showers Challenge, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Series, Recovery, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-28
Updated: 2008-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:19:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Fraser had always found it comforting to keep a space around him, a discrete two feet. Very few people passed that boundary. He remembered overhearing his neighbor, Mrs. Gamez, saying once, "I want to give him a big hug, but I'm afraid I will wrinkle him."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Space, and Time

**Author's Note:**

> Recovery story with mental mentions of a previous rape event (Victoria/Fraser). Could be triggery due to this. There are, however, no graphic descriptions.
> 
> This is thanks to [secretlybronte](http://secretlybronte.livejournal.com) and that writing party she threw. Otherwise I might've left Fraser broken forever. But if it weren't for nos4a2no9's beta, I never would have made it through.

It seemed Fraser had always stood like this—trapped before death, a fly in amber, caught between need and duty.

An anonymous donation had saved her from having the ugly, utilitarian, pauper's plaque. This headstone was granite, carved deeply with the simple facts of her name and the dates of her existence.

Ray didn't know he was here. Perhaps he would decry it—not the act of being here, but the need that prompted it. The same need that'd had Fraser lighting a hundred candles and waiting by the window for a knock that never came.

Why had he fastened on her with such need? He could argue their situation, _in extremis_ , nearly frozen by the cold, made for the kind of romantic saga that had captured his heart in his youth; had taught him to expect eternal love where there was none.

But she had felt it, too. He knew that much. She had been compelled, as was he, the only difference being she was also compelled to hate him for what he had done.

He still couldn't quite forgive himself for following his duty, but he also could not, even to this day, believe he could have acted any other way. He was who he was. He thought perhaps it was that quality within him that caused her to love him in the first place.

And hate him, too, of course. He could name it now—what she had done to him in her revenge, what she had taken.

His shoulders protested, still sore, as he bent and placed the volume of poetry on the headstone before walking away.

///

Fraser had always found it comforting to keep a space around him, a discrete two feet. Very few people passed that boundary. He remembered overhearing his neighbor, Mrs. Gamez, saying once, "I want to give him a big hug, but I'm afraid I will wrinkle him."

No one had wrinkled him for a good, long time—until Ray Kowalski appeared in his life, lunged at him, and crashed into him with a 'Fraser, buddy!' that left him reeling for more than one reason.

It wasn't _his_ Ray, but a new Ray, a very different Ray.

His Ray Vecchio had been close, had dipped into his space in friendship, in brotherhood, in what Fraser liked to think of as Old Country affection—a marker of his Italian heritage.

But this Ray—this new Ray, not yet his, but becoming so faster than Fraser would have believed possible—entered fully into Fraser's space, invaded it like a Hun, and Fraser was deeply surprised to discover he didn't mind. He found he liked it. He even grew to need it.

And then he lost it.

After Victoria—after she came in the night and did her worst one last time before dying—Ray stopped entering Fraser's space. And Fraser understood why—really, who could blame Ray for being tentative, for avoiding touching him, when Fraser himself was uncertain whether he would welcome it, whether he deserved it. He was a changed man, damaged in both their eyes. Perhaps even as much as when he was nearly paralyzed by a misplaced bullet.

Fraser was also grateful for the reprieve. He had, for too long, been hovering on the edge of a dangerous obsession toward his partner, born of Ray's fey good looks and easy manner; of those hundreds of touches, rough and bold and presumptive.

Now Fraser had his space. So why did it feel as if the rooms he occupied were losing air, as if they were shrinking around him?

He needed to breathe.

///

The asphalt scraped hard under his palms, and then he was running again, trying to catch up to Ray, who hadn't waited—why hadn't he waited?

Because Fraser was slow. Too slow. By the time he came around the side of the building, Ray was in a standoff, gun out with his other palm up, entreating. The thief, hardly more than a boy, thin as a rail and with wild black hair, was holding a tiny pistol, the kind a woman might conceal in a handbag.

Tiny, but it could be deadly nonetheless. Ray wasn't wearing a vest today, and Fraser hung back, afraid to disrupt the tableau. He clenched his fists, feeling a wince in the torn skin of his palms.

"—Is what I'm thinking, you know? I mean you don't want to get into a big mess here, kiddo." Ray's voice was utterly calm and even.

"But I gotta take care of Joey! I'm the only one looking out for us!"

"I know. And it's gonna be okay. Just put down the gun before someone gets shot or something. You don't want that on you—believe me. I promise we'll figure something out for your brother."

And just like that the boy was sagging, all parts of him, from his shoulders to the hand holding the gun, all wilting down. Ray stepped forward without haste and relieved him of the pistol.

Fraser felt something move in his chest—it felt like relief, but it was painful, too. He stepped back until he could lean his shoulders against the brick wall.

Ray read the boy his rights and cuffed him gently, then turned toward Fraser. He gave Fraser an odd look, tilting his head. Fraser waved his hand.

Together they all walked back to the _bodega_ , and after taking the clerk's statement, Ray drove them to the station. Once there, Ray had an intense talk with Child Services, but Fraser bowed out, departing with a quick farewell.

Ray didn't need him.

///

Fraser awoke early, as was his custom of late. First light had barely begun to creep through the blinds, making his office appear dim and ugly. He roused himself to dress in a sweat suit and sneakers, and then took Diefenbaker out for a run.

Their daily runs had increased in duration commensurate with his earlier mornings. He thought he had never been in such good physical condition, which made it difficult to understand why he had failed Ray yesterday by tripping over his own feet.

On the last leg of his run, though, his breath grew short. The closer he drew to the Consulate, the more difficult he found it to draw in air.

One month, now. It had been a month, and part of him, the part that cherished duty, that took pride in his place, berated him for his weakness. But the Consulate after hours, when he was alone there with no one but Dief for company, felt a hollow and haunted place.

Perhaps he should move. The thought seemed like an indulgence, and as always when he had such ideas, he wondered what Ray would say.

He picked up the phone without thinking and dialed.

"Yeah?" Ray sounded hoarse. Oh, dear, Fraser had woken him. For a split second he felt too embarrassed to speak; he even thought of hanging up without identifying himself.

"Fraser, is that you?"

Wondering how Ray had known, Fraser cleared his throat and said, "Yes, Ray. I'm sorry to disturb you so early."

"Don't do that, don't apologize," Ray said quietly, with that same unusual patience he'd been showing of late. "What's up?"

"I've been thinking about moving," Fraser said abruptly.

He heard Ray sigh. "Well, it's about damned time, yeah? You want some help finding a place?"

Fraser felt a profound relief, as if he'd been relieved of some duty, absolved of a major sin. "No, that's quite all right, Ray. I just wondered...if you thought it was a good idea."

"Better than good. Hey, I'll bring you the listings at lunch."

"Thank you, Ray." Fraser choked a little. "That would be perfect."

///

The next few weeks were somewhat chaotic, since Fraser had to juggle searching for an apartment appropriately near a park, completing his paperwork, and acquiring American funds—the building manager seemed oddly unwilling to accept the security deposit in Canadian moneys. And then, of course, Fraser had to move. Ray offered to help, but Fraser wanted to do it alone.

He remembered Ray Vecchio griping about his old neighborhood on Racine. This new area was slightly better. Fraser threw away his cot and bought a real bed. The apartment itself had two very large rooms and a tiny kitchen. And a fire escape, which was essential to obtain Diefenbaker's approval.

They both were more content in the new place. The air felt more open; living there, in some strange way, felt like a return to better times.

///

Fraser had taken to jogging with Dief to the Consulate in the mornings and showering and changing there. He arrived early this morning, since it was Tuesday and Ray would be picking him up for a full day of liaising.

Ever since their return, Inspector Thatcher's replacement, Chief Liaison Officer Perry, had been oddly amenable to lending out Fraser's services to the Chicago Police Department, claiming the partnership was "positive PR" for Canadian-American relations.

Frankly, Fraser believed Officer Perry simply didn't know what else to do with him. It would seem odd to put the man who'd been instrumental in recovering a stolen nuclear submarine on simple guard duty.

That notoriety was also useful with the CPD brass, who had started making noises about issuing Fraser a special badge with jurisdictional authority in Cook County. They wanted him to carry a weapon. It had been a long time since he had last done so, but he found he relished the idea of having that comforting weight back on his hip.

He was showered and just tying his tie when he heard the knock at the front door. The Consulate was not yet open to visitors, so Fraser felt all right stepping out in less than full uniform to answer it.

Ray stood on the doorstep, a cup in each hand. "Sorry for the early revelry, there, buddy. I brought a peace offering."

"I believe that's 'reveilles', Ray," Fraser took the cup and sniffed. The deep aroma of strong black coffee made him smile. "Thank you kindly. And a good morning to you, as well."

Ray gave him a grin and followed him back to his office, talking all the way. "It's like I was saying yesterday—Milroy's alibi is crap. Last night I dug up the skinny on his so-called fiancé and it turns out she's imported talent from Vegas—a high-class penthouse girl who works for a guy named Pete Ramsey. And get this—she _used_ to work for the Bookman before he vanished so mysteriously."

The name stopped Fraser dead with one arm in his brown tunic. "Ray—"

"You should give Vecchio a call," Ray said in a rush. "Maybe he knows the connection between Ramsey and Milroy."

"Yes, I suppose."

Ray turned from fiddling with Fraser's stapler to face him. "You suppose? What's to think about?"

"No—nothing." Fraser turned and donned his tunic, straightened his tie, and put on the wide Sam Browne, all the while thinking of the impossibility of speaking to Ray Vecchio. Ray, who knew her, who tried to shoot her. Who carried his own guilt for failing and putting a bullet in Fraser's back instead. How would he react if he knew what had happened later?

It didn't bear consideration.

"Why don't you call him, Ray?" Fraser said casually while he finished with the strap.

"Me? He's your pal, Fraser. Me and Vecchio aren't exactly simpatico."

"Yes, but since this is strictly police business...I'll just call him on my own time." Fraser looked up to check his hair in the mirror and caught an expression of pained concern on Ray's face.

 _Don't. Please, Ray._  
  
"Does he know, uh, about _her_? That she's dead, I mean?"

"I don't know," Fraser said abruptly. "Perhaps Lieutenant Welsh—"

"Fraser—"

"To the point—now that we know where Milroy wasn't, shall we endeavor to prove where he _was_?" Fraser said quickly.

Ray gave a slight shake of his head and stuck both hands in his pockets. But he said nothing as Fraser picked up his hat and waved Diefenbaker toward the door.

///

Ray hung up the phone. "Vecchio says Milroy was deep in Ramsey's pocket—borrowed capital from him for setting up a numbers racket that didn't pan out. So it looks like Ramsey was protecting his investment."

Fraser nodded.

"Vecchio said, 'Tell Benny hey from me. And what, he's forgotten my number?'"

Suppressing a wince, Fraser picked up the case file he'd been poring over. "Parker was killed between approximately ten-thirty p.m. and one-thirty a.m. the next morning. Milroy's last reliable alibi was at the Double Door nightclub around nine-thirty."

"Right," Ray said, then jabbed two fingers at him. "Trixie, that waitress. She said he was doing the big spender thing, like he liked being noticed."

"Precisely." Fraser put down the file and laced his hands together. He could see Ray's mind working a mile a minute, as always—the man had a brain like a meat grinder, meant in the most complimentary sense. Facts went in, and out came a nice steak tartar.

"So Milroy wants to be remembered cross-town at nine-thirty hanging out with his _fiancé_ ," Ray made tick quotes, "Denise. He leaves with her, but they had to have split up—" Ray snapped his fingers. "That's it. Unless she came along for the murder—which, doubt he'd want a witness—she must've taken a cab from the Double Door. All we gotta do is get call logs from the cab companies and then take a shot of her with us when we find the right cabbie. Milroy's alibi will be toast."

Fraser couldn't help smiling in satisfaction—at Ray's keen mind, at the boundless enthusiasm the man had for police work.

They ran down the evidence just as Ray had predicted, and Denise crumpled—" _Like wet cardboard_ ," Ray said—when confronted about her solo cab ride. The evidence started to mount up. Parker's safe deposit box yielded papers implicating Milroy in a handful of felonious racketeering schemes and warned, in the event of his untimely death, to look at Milroy, who had threatened him physical harm; an eye-witness surfaced when they canvassed Parker's apartment complex—she identified Milroy as the man she'd seen leaving the building at approximately eleven o'clock. As the pieces fell into place, Ray grew even more excited. He practically crackled with energy, and Fraser often found himself having to glance away or be caught staring.

Finally, they had the last puzzle piece: the provenance of the murder weapon, a knife nosed up by Diefenbaker in the bushes behind the building. It belonged to a set originally confiscated as possible evidence from Milroy's kitchen.

They drove to arrest Milroy at the single-room occupancy hotel where he was staying. Ray looked to be on fire, every sinew tight with anticipation. Fraser felt an answering excitement stirring him, the deadened sensation he'd been laboring under for months suddenly scaling away.

The hotel was a sleazy one with no elevator. They consulted the desk for Milroy's room number and were walking up the stairs when Fraser's sharp hearing caught the desk attendant calling Milroy to warn him.

"Hurry, Ray," Fraser said, bounding up the stairs with Diefenbaker just ahead.

"Fraser!" Ray hissed, but the urgency of the chase was in Fraser's blood. Ray was the one with the warrant, but when Fraser leaned an ear against the door he heard the rattle of heavy shoes on metals steps—the fire escape. So Fraser kicked open the door and followed.

It had been forever since Fraser had had the pleasure of chasing a malfeasant up a fire escape and over the rooftops. He was aware, of course, that Milroy might be armed, but the fact had no impact on Fraser's speed or the caution he employed. Nor did Ray's low-voiced, angry threats coming from behind. He saw only the brown-suited man in the black toupee charging desperately away.

They were closing on the gap between two buildings. When Fraser saw Milroy's intent, he had only a second to consider Milroy's height, heaviness and seeming lack of shape before yelling frantically, "Halt! Milroy, you'll never make it!"

Indeed, Milroy's leap was somewhat short of the mark, and he ended up scrabbling desperately for a handhold as he hung over the side of the next-door building. Fraser made the jump easily and struggled to help the man, who was now clinging, bug-eyed with fear, to the curved tiles cemented to the edge of the roof. Just as Milroy lost his grip, Fraser laid himself down and caught his hand. And then the full weight of the man threatened to pull Fraser's arm from his socket.

He felt the double-thump of Ray landing on the roof by his side. Milroy yelled, "Please, God, please don't lemme go, don't lemme go!" He was twisting and kicking frantically, and Fraser felt something in his shoulder strain from the torsion. He gritted his teeth.

Ray yelled, "Hang on!" and suddenly his grip joined Fraser's. Together they hauled the struggling, swearing man up and over the side.

Instantly on his feet, Ray pulled out his handcuffs, cursing furiously. "Do not _think_ of fucking with me, chump," he said as he yanked Milroy's hands behind his back.

The socket of Fraser's shoulder was on fire, and he found he couldn't move for fear it would worsen. But that was stupidity; he knew it. He needed to realign the shoulder before the muscles froze. Groaning softly, Fraser got to his knees and then pulled on his own wrist until the pain stopped with a snapping sensation.

He grayed out a little, and the next thing he knew Ray was crouching next to him.

"Hey, there. What's going on?" Ray's voice was uncommonly gentle, especially in contrast to the way he'd read Milroy his Miranda warning.

Fraser suddenly longed, with all his heart, for Ray to treat him with the same rough and almost antagonistic affection he'd always shown.

"I'm afraid my shoulder was out of joint. It's back in position, now," Fraser explained. He automatically tried to rise by putting his hand down, and paid the price. Cautiously, he rolled to the other side and got to his feet, aware of Ray's hands hovering nearby as if to help.

"C'mon," Ray said, "let's take this turkey to the roasting box."

Fraser hid a smile at the pun and followed.

///

Lieutenant Welsh seemed what passed for overjoyed. "Constable, Detective—much against my will I must confess to being somewhat impressed. Congratulations, gentlemen."

Ray's fierce scowl did nothing to hide how he fairly glowed under the praise. Fraser, too, felt a sense of immense satisfaction at their solving the tricky case.

"C'mon, Fraser. There's a brewski with my name on it down at Hugo's."

Diefenbaker, who'd suffered being left behind for the arrest quite willingly thanks to it being doughnut day at the squad, perked up his chin at the mention of Hugo's, which also, as Fraser recalled, served fish and chips.

And so Fraser ended up ordering double, because there really was no controlling his lupine companion when both grease and fish were involved. Ray did the same, and ordered a beer—Canadian, Fraser was unsurprised to note. Fraser made do with a cup of hot bar coffee, which was quite vile, but better than their tea.

"So," Ray said, knocking his bottle down on the table with a sigh. "Today was pretty great, huh?"

"Yes, I believe justice was served, and quite well."

"Not just that." Ray paused, and then continued strangely, "You seemed better. More _on_."

Fraser held his breath. It was the first mention Ray had made of Fraser's...mood of late.

"I mean, I'm no Nosy Parker, you know that, Fraser." Ray seemed very intent on his beer bottle. "I'm just saying I think things are getting better for you."

Ray was his friend, Fraser reminded himself, even as his back stiffened. His friend, who had been extraordinarily patient with Fraser's rudeness and distance.

He coughed and forced himself to say cautiously, "Yes, I'm...much happier not staying at the Consulate. And, of course, Diefenbaker approves of the new apartment."

"That's good, Fraser. Real good."

"Perhaps you might come over sometime. I have a television." Fraser winced internally at the somewhat pathetic offer.

But Ray's face brightened. "Sure, yeah. That'd be great. There's a game on tonight—"

 _Tonight_. Well, it was sudden, but surely there was no reason not to have Ray over.

"All right, Ray. Why don't we purchase some beverages on the way?"

Ray grinned wide, but all he said was, "And don't forget the popcorn."

It wasn't until they were settled on Fraser's second-hand couch, beers in hand and a large bowl of popcorn between them, that he realized why this felt so odd yet familiar at the same time. Could it really be he hadn't been to Ray's apartment in months? Not since—well, not for a long while, at any rate.

It was true, and Fraser felt guilty, as if he'd been punishing the one man who deserved nothing but gratitude. Fraser wanted to explain, every time Ray glanced over at him with a smile or offered him some popcorn—it wasn't that he hadn't wished for Ray's company. But seeing himself through Ray's eyes had become too painful.

Ray shouted at the screen, and Fraser realized he'd just missed an important play. The Bulls were up, barely, and every foul counted.

But Fraser was hard-pressed to pay attention to the screen. His shoulder ached with an unkind throbbing, and he was tired. He never slept much anymore, and the day had been long and filled with excitement. Not that unusual for him, but perhaps it was time to admit he was growing older.

Fraser slouched down and rested his stocking feet on the dilapidated coffee table he'd found on the street. It was made of rough, oaken boards, so though it didn't look like much, it was sturdy. He'd been thinking of Ray when he picked it up; Ray, who liked to slam his big motorcycle boots down on his own coffee table.

It was pleasant, finally having Ray here.

Fraser drifted, the sound of the game mixing with a strange, waking dream of Ray acting as a coach in the NBA. He would wear terrible suits and his tie was loose, shirt unbuttoned, nervous sweat in the hollow of his throat as he gestured and yelled rude things at the referees.

Fraser was at the foul line, and Ray was shouting a reminder— _"Bloom and close, Frase!"_ The ball sank in, touching only the net.

_"Yeah! One down, one to go!"_

__"What?" Fraser jolted awake at something heavy landing on his lap. His shoulder throbbed tightly as he touched the wool of his Hudson Bay blanket.

"I said you're nodding off there, Fraser. Do you want me to go?"

"No, no." Fraser didn't want Ray to leave, not so soon. Not when Fraser was finally able to sleep.

"You haven't been sleeping?" Ray sounded a little peeved.

Good Lord, had he said that out loud?

"No, not so well, lately, I must admit."

Ray sat back down beside him. "You want me to...I can sleep on the couch, if you want me to stay."

"I—" Fraser was helpless to say yes, but couldn't force himself to say the polite thing— _No, go home, Ray_.

"To tell the truth," Ray said slowly, "I think I'm too tired to risk driving the Goat."

Oh, this was a kindness. "Then by all means," Fraser said weakly. He pushed himself to his feet, and his shoulder shouted at him.

"Looks like that hurt," Ray said. "You should put some of that gunk you have on it."

"I'll do that. Let me get you a pillow first."

But Ray followed him into the bedroom, and reached up onto the closet shelf when Fraser opened it. Another kindness.

"Why don't you get your gunk and we'll see what's going on with the shoulder." Ray's voice was gentle, but firm. Fraser looked into Ray's dear face and felt, in that moment, such an overwhelming fondness for the man he was struck speechless.

Ray stared back for a long moment then shook his head as if dazed. "You still have some of that stuff you used on me up north? Remember after my first day tripping over my skis?"

Fraser well remembered that day, and giving Ray a quick rubdown in the tent. He'd tried to be dispassionate, mechanical, but he believed his fingertips still retained the memory of Ray's skin.

"I'll fetch it," Fraser said, nodding.

He located the homemade lineament still packed in his gear bag, and brought it back to the bedroom. When Fraser eased off his suspenders and unbuttoned his shirt, Ray's hands were there to help him remove it—a mercy, since Fraser's shoulder really had grown appallingly stiff. With his back to Ray, he used his other hand to reach back and strip off his undershirt.

Ray made a sound from behind him, and Fraser looked over at his shoulder. It was, indeed, inflamed, and showing some slight bruising.

"See, that is why I let you do all the heavy lifting," Ray joked. "You're gonna need to ice that puppy afterward." He turned and left, presumably to fetch the ice.

Fraser opened the jar and applied some of the lineament to his shoulder. The muscle was tender, no doubt about it.

"Okay," Ray said as he came back in and dropped a small bag of ice on the bed, "sit down and let me do the rest." His voice rose in question, and Fraser suddenly became conscious he was half-undressed. Odd, how he hadn't noticed earlier.

But he sat on the edge of the bed, his back turned to Ray, and waited.

He heard Ray take a deep breath behind him, as if he also understood the sudden heaviness in the air. And then there was a light hand on the back of Fraser's shoulder, and with the matter-of-fact nature of Ray's touch, Fraser felt the room expand strangely. He could breathe, with Ray at his back.

Ray continued smoothing the lineament on him gently, but with long, purposeful strokes. "You have an Ace bandage or something?" His voice was low.

"In the dresser, top drawer," Fraser said.

Ray fetched it, and then draped the bag of ice over Fraser's shoulder. Fraser withheld a gasp with some difficulty. Standing behind him, Ray wrapped the bandage around, nudging under Fraser's arm so he would lift it, then threading the bandage under and across his chest, over and then under again. Ray did it all in complete silence, and by the end Fraser was trembling a little—not from pain, but the intimacy of Ray's arm hugging him so briefly, touching him with such care.

"Thank you, Ray," Fraser said, somewhat breathlessly.

"No problemo." Ray sounded a little odd himself. He stepped back and picked up his pillow from the end of the bed. "Well, I guess I'll give that couch of yours a try. Get some sleep, all right? A sleepy partner is a useless partner."

Ray took his pillow and strode away, and Fraser bent to unlace his boots, a delicate process with his arm trussed up. The cold from the ice was now pleasantly dulling the pain in his shoulder. He shucked his boots and his pants and decided to sleep as he was, in just his boxer shorts.

He could hear Ray puttering about in the other room, perhaps undressing, then the sound of the toilet, and the bathroom sink. When the living room light went off, Fraser made his way to the bathroom. On the trip back to his bed, he left the bedroom door open so he would hear Ray's familiar, light snore coming from the other room.

Fraser dreamed that night of the north, a blinding white dream, oddly peaceful.

///

Something had changed that night, because the days that followed seemed easier, warmer somehow. After analysis, Fraser realized it was because the distance between them had been erased—Ray now touched him with the same rough affection he had always shown, punching Fraser's arm when he was being too obviously disingenuous; slinging a casual forearm over Fraser's shoulders when leading him out of the bull pen.

It felt like coming home.

But with the new closeness, a not-unfamiliar tension returned, a tension he had never felt with Ray Vecchio. Sometimes Fraser would lift his head from pondering a case file, his finger rubbing absently at his lower lip, and he would catch Ray's eyes upon him.

It was disconcerting, but not unpleasant by any means. What it signified, however, made Fraser's stomach cringe a little. A tightness that warned him to look away, to stop thinking. He would tremble there, strangely on the edge of white panic, until something happened—a noise in the bullpen, or, once, while sitting on his couch, Diefenbaker's cold nose pressing against his wrist.

Fraser jolted in reaction and jerked his eyes back to the television screen. The special feature they were watching was about an ice mummy—an ancient nomad found embedded in a glacier. His desiccated body was twisted, one arm reaching up over his head.

"We never did find that hand, huh?" Ray said beside him, sounding as if he were determinedly ignoring Fraser's distraction.

"Perhaps someday we should try again." Their adventure had been cut short by unusually cold weather conditions.

"I'd like that. I liked it up there, you know? Stuff seemed...simpler." There was a question in Ray's voice. "Like anything was possible, you know?"

"Yes," Fraser agreed softly. He knew exactly what Ray meant. The tension between them had risen on that journey—the close quarters making it difficult to hide anything at all. It was then Fraser started to understand he perhaps wasn't alone in his attraction, his desire to be closer still.

But the trip had ended suddenly, and Chicago with all its bustle and confusion had taken Fraser's full attention. Settling back in, finding himself on the streets again with Ray—somehow the partnership became more important, once more, than any other considerations.

And then came Victoria, who had ruined everything, every careful glance and tentative step. He was tired to find her ruling him even still.

It seemed now, with Ray next to him on the couch, Fraser could almost taste the snow again, feel the wind and the cold of the tent and the warmth of Ray breathing quietly next to him in the dark.

Fraser had given that up. Had let her come between them—

"I guess I should go," Ray said heavily.

 _No,_ Fraser wanted to say. He took a breath to make the denial, but Ray was already standing up and turning toward the door.

But he didn't quite step forward. He stood for a long moment, and Fraser rose hastily, his heart burning.

"Ray, wait. Please..."

Ray slowly turned toward him, letting Fraser see his face at last, and Fraser's breath caught in his throat.

 _This_ was what Ray hadn't wanted him to see, had been hiding in furtive looks and behind steady blue eyes, but Fraser saw it now—the love, the care, and a terrible fear. He didn't know the source of that fear, but he couldn't bear the lines pulling down Ray's lips, the awful vulnerability of his face.

Not Ray. Never Ray, like this. Hurting. Fearful. And for Fraser to be the cause—

The long silence between them before been unnatural and wrong, but he had thought it the product of his pride and Ray's care; now he wondered if there weren't something more to it, a barrier of fear unrelated to Victoria's attack.

 _Attack_. Yes, it was an attack, and Fraser was the victim, but could be so no longer. He took two steps toward Ray, bridging the gap between them, between his own fear and his need for Ray. Fraser felt it still like a phantasm—the ghostly pressure pushing them apart. Had it been only within him, or in Ray as well? Regardless, Fraser couldn't allow it, not for what it did to Ray's beautiful face.

Fraser was close now, and Ray's eyes, which had widened at his approached, dipped to half-mast, as if he were once again afraid to let Fraser see. Fraser lifted his hand and touched Ray's pale cheek, felt the stiff brush of his stubble tingling against his palm.

"Ray, is this...what I think it is?"

Ray's lips twitched in an uncertain smile, almost too brief to see. "Yeah, Fraser."

He must have known the doubt that tugged within Fraser, even then, because he swayed forward, tautness in his body as if ready to withdraw at an instant's notice. But Fraser found himself leaning forward to meet him, tilting Ray's head so their lips could meet.

So much blossomed within Fraser at that moment—a dark rose, blood-filled petals opening, yearning—he could almost hear the thunder of his pulse as well as feel it in his lips, in his temples. Ray's mouth was wide and supple, and the burn of his stubble against Fraser's skin welcome as a palpable difference. Ray's arms moved, and Fraser felt Ray's strong hands resting lightly on his hips.

More caution. Fraser was grateful for it, because in spite of the differences in kissing a man, his need was the same, and it was his need that had always terrified him. He had to recognize that now. Fraser needed Ray. Needed this—Ray's lips, moving softly, wetly against his. The clutch of Ray's hands tightening then releasing, as if he kept forgetting his desire to be cautious. His tongue came out to stroke along Fraser's lips, and Fraser had to contain a shudder.

Ray felt it anyway, or must have, because he pulled back. Fraser dropped his hand from Ray's cheek, his palm damp and cooling in the air, already missing the warmth. Ray was panting a little, short breaths that touched the air between them, and his eyes had grown dark.

"Wanted that," he said. "You have _no idea_ how long I've wanted to do that, Fraser."

"About as long as I have, I imagine," Fraser said in a shaky voice.

"Yeah?" Ray's eyes dropped.

"Yes. Oh, yes, Ray. Please—" He tugged gently on Ray's arm, leading him toward the couch.

Fraser picked up the half-empty bowl of popcorn and set it on the floor, ignoring Dief's happy pounce in favor of pulling Ray down beside him.

Then Ray was once again close, his lips planting small, lingering kisses, one after another, on Fraser's mouth. It was delightful. Tender. Nothing of what Fraser had expected of his volatile and energetic partner. Fraser tried to return the kisses, but Ray's pattern grew uneven and playful, lips glancing all over Fraser's face, until finally Fraser grew frustrated and caught the back of Ray's head, holding him still.

Ray laughed against his cheek, and then Fraser captured his lips and deepened the kiss. He thrust his tongue into Ray's mouth, and was shocked when Ray gripped it with his lips and sucked hungrily. Fraser felt a vague stirring of desire, and almost bit his own tongue when his jaw closed reflexively.

"Hey," Ray said, but Fraser gripped his arms and pushed him until he was slouched back against the arm of the sofa.

Fraser took a moment to gather himself while Ray's blue eyes stayed on him, waiting.

"Let me...just let me," Fraser said, and when Ray nodded his permission, Fraser bent himself to explore. His tongue rasped against the stubble on Ray's jaw, and he enjoyed the sensation so much he continued, licking until Ray's stifled laugh told him it was perhaps too much, too strange. Fraser targeted the lobe of Ray's ear, teasing it with his tongue before catching it between his teeth.

Ray moaned beneath him and his hips lifted, the heat of his erection pressing against Fraser's thigh.

Fraser lifted his head and looked down at Ray's flushed face and his heaving chest.

"Can you take off your shirt?" Fraser asked.

Ray lunged up and scrabbled off his T-shirt hastily, revealing beautiful, pale skin, unscarred and perfect. Fraser leaned over planted a trail of kisses from Ray's collarbone on down, following the path with his fingers close behind, until he reached Ray's left nipple. Fraser stroked it with his tongue and felt it firm. He lifted his head and blew a puff of air across it until it was rigidly erect, then he sucked it into his mouth.

Ray groaned loudly, his chest reverberating against Fraser's cheek.

"God, Fraser!" Ray's fingers plucked desperately at the back of Fraser's Henley. "Wanna touch you. Take this off."

Fraser drew back, but his hands wouldn't stop exploring. Ray's gaze was unfocused, and he bit his lower lip when Fraser caught his nipple between his thumb and index finger.

"C'mon, take it off," Ray said, his voice somewhat strangled.

Fraser shook his head, suddenly mute.

Some of the haze faded from Ray's eyes, and he frowned. Fraser purposefully let his hand roam lower, until he could press his palm against the solid heat just to the side of Ray's zipper. Ray's eyes fluttered closed and his tongue came out to swipe at his lips. A moment later, though, his eyes opened again, staring somewhat accusingly.

"Let me?" Fraser said hoarsely. "Only let me—" he said again, leaving the rest unspoken. He waited for Ray's puzzled nod, then bent his head and rubbed his mouth against Ray's erection beneath his jeans, the material rough under his lips. Ray moaned something incomprehensible and stilled abruptly, waiting.

Fraser moved downward, outlining the thick shape with his lips but not his teeth, feeling it twitch and harden further.

"Jesus," Ray murmured. "Please, Frase, you gotta—"

"Yes." Fraser took a deep breath, inhaling the musky scent overlaid with fabric softener—no wonder Ray's jeans were always so supple, outlining his assets so wonderfully.

Fraser straightened and gripped the top button of Ray's fly, yanking to the side so they popped open in a rapid sequence. He heard Ray moan with relief at the ease of pressure. His next moans had a different flavor, when Fraser reached into the top of Ray's briefs and took Ray's hot, tender erection into his hand. He stroked once, and Ray's hips rose, his body an arc of pleasure.

"Oh, God," Ray said. "Anything, do _something_ —"

This was power, in a strange way. It thrilled Fraser unexpectedly, and with his heart pounding hard, he slid to his knees beside the couch and put his lips over the head of Ray's erection. Ray's cock, in his mouth. Ray's hoarse cries in his ears, sounding like he was undergoing the most delicious torment.

Fraser could do this. He could do this because this part didn't frighten him, even if he wasn't familiar with the mechanics of having a cock within his mouth. He knew at least to keep his teeth carefully covered. He would do no damage—bring only pleasure to Ray. His partner in all things now.

Tightening his grip, Fraser stroked from below quickly while he continued to drift his tongue over Ray's sensitive, tight skin. The flavor of Ray's musk merged with the pre-ejaculate seeping from the tip. Ray's hips jerked, and Fraser pressed down with one hand, controlling him. For the first time in months, Fraser felt his own erection beginning, a welcomed excitement, so long missed. He rose and fell, taking Ray in and letting him slide out again, pressing his lips closed until Ray's cock forced them open over and over again.

Ray's fingers suddenly sank into Fraser's hair and he called out his name—"Fraser. God, Fraser!"—and Fraser quickened the movement of his tongue, coaxing Ray's orgasm into his mouth, easing to a slow milking of Ray's jerking shaft. When Ray let out a low sigh, Fraser stopped and let his softening penis rest within his mouth for a moment before withdrawing.

"Christ on a bike," Ray said breathlessly. "Come up here."

Gladly, Fraser shuffled over so he could meet Ray's lips in a kiss, pressing him down against the cushions in his eagerness to taste Ray's mouth once again. They kissed, and kissed some more, until Fraser felt a strange tingling in his face, a buzzing, and his heart beat too fast, racing in his chest.

Ray pulled back, their lips parting noisily. "Need to breathe...geez."

 _Oh, yes. Breathing_. It hadn't really seemed important.

Putting his hand on Fraser's shoulder, Ray used him as a support to pull himself to a seated position. Their knees collided, and then Ray slid down until he had a leg on either side of Fraser's, trapping him.

Then Ray reached for the bottom of Fraser's shirt, lifting it and saying, "My turn to see the goods." He was smiling broadly, but his expression changed abruptly, and he looked down. Fraser realized he was clutching tightly onto Ray's hands, preventing them from raising his shirt. He tried to release his grip but found he couldn't seem to.

"O-okay." Ray shook out of his hands and leaned back, raising his palms. "You want to tell me what's going on?"

"I...I'm s-sorry, Ray—"

"Hey, no problem." But Ray sounded upset, and he was frowning, dark wrinkles appearing between his eyes. Fraser couldn't bear to see his disappointment, and lowered his gaze. His hands were clenched on his thighs.

He was spoiling this. Ruining the sweet intimacy they had finally found, and couldn't understand the reason for it. It certainly wouldn't be the first time Ray had seen him without his shirt on. Just weeks ago, in fact—

"It's no big deal—don't get your panties in a knot, Fraser."

Ray was trying to reassure _him_. It made it worse, somehow, because this was his fault. But he couldn't—he just couldn't seem to—it was _different_ , now. They were different. Ray was—Ray was staring at him, Fraser could feel it, and embarrassment crawled up his neck.

Ray pushed himself up to sit on the couch, and shifted if he were preparing to stand.

"Don't go," Fraser said. "Please, just give me—"

"Not going anywhere," Ray interrupted him easily, his voice light. "Just grabbing my brewski." He reached past Fraser to pluck the bottle from the coffee table.

Relief swamping him, Fraser rose from his knees and settled back onto the couch beside Ray. Fraser's earlier arousal had died completely, and he felt a hollow ache in his groin. _Blue balls_ , Ray Vecchio had once called the phenomenon, complaining about the sudden disappearance of the beautiful ATF agent he'd fallen for.

But thinking of his old friend just ached like another kind of bruise, another kind of shame.

"So, uh," Ray said, still sounding not at all angry. Which was strange. Fraser knew his odd behavior often inspired frustration in his friend.

"Yes, well." Fraser roused himself to turn his head and look at him.

Ray tipped his bottle at him in a request for him to continue.

"I'm sorry I ruined the mood," Fraser said. "I just wasn't quite prepared."

Ray's smile was wry. "No proper preparation, huh?"

The little joke did much to ease Fraser's embarrassment. "Tragically, no."

"You know, I have seen you naked before, Fraser. Well, almost—" Ray pinked a little and his blue eyes darted away.

"It's different now," Fraser said, not wanting to try to explain why.

"Yeah, I know. Shit." Ray put down his beer and scrubbed his palms over his face. His fingers ended up in his hair, scratching under the spikes. "Everything's been different ever since—" He cut himself off. "Oh. Oh, I'm a moron."

Fraser found himself curling forward, his fists clenched under his arms.

"Whoa. Don't go all Turtle on me, Fraser." He felt Ray's hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, just resting there. "Maybe you shouldn't expect to just hop into the deep end. Paddle around in the kiddie pool for a while—scratch that, weird mental image. What I mean is, why don't we take a time out—"

"No!" The response was visceral—his heart, his gut shouted a denial. He turned toward Ray and put a hand on his leg; clutched at it, really. "I love being with you, touching you—kissing you. I've been waiting for this for so long—waiting for _you_ , Ray. Don't make me stop—"

"Okay, okay, already. Take a Mountie pill." But Ray's grin was a thing to behold. His eyes went soft. "See, for a second there I thought you were just, you know, humoring me."

Fraser's expression must have shown his incomprehension, because Ray shrugged, his eyes dropping. "I thought you were giving me a good time when you weren't really into it yourself. I mean, you had to know I've been wanting this—"

"God. No, Ray. No." Fraser had to kiss him then, kiss away the self-deprecating smile. "It was me, Ray. My fault. I lost the ball."

A snort of laughter. " _Dropped_ the ball, you mean."

"Yes, yes. _Dropped_ the ball."

"But you still wanna touch mine, yeah?"

Fraser felt himself flush.

"Good to know. Good to know." The teasing voice gentled, and Ray leaned forward. Fraser leaned, too, thinking Ray meant to kiss him again—he could never have enough of Ray's lips—but Ray just titled his forehead until their heads were touching. "So, we'll just work on the rest," he said softly.

"Now?" Fraser's heart quailed.

"Next time. Next time, Frase. I guarantee you there _is_ gonna be a next time."

"God, yes." Fraser wrapped his arms around Ray and felt him do the same, holding him tightly.

It was a simple thing, but Fraser thought he had never felt so much love in his life as he did right then, in that moment.

He told himself he would do his damnedest to deserve it.

///

The next day was filled with an uncustomary amount of Consulate work. Officer Perry had to fly to Ottawa for a conference, and Fraser was left holding down the fort with Constable Dailey, Turnbull's replacement. Dailey was a fresh-faced young woman from Toronto who seemed almost tongue-tied in Fraser's presence—he had to assume it was due to his adventures with Ray and the nuclear submarine incident. Fraser tried his best to put her at ease, but finally had to hand her a stack of GRC 3584 _stroke_ E forms and push her, still blushing, toward her desk.

The rest of the day Fraser fielded phone calls and attempted to tear his mind away from Ray—from the sweet sounds he'd made as Fraser held him in his mouth, from the kisses Ray delivered, so much more than delightful. From the upcoming evening, and the possibilities it promised, both of pleasure and perhaps failure.

He couldn't understand how there could be anything Ray could offer him that he wouldn't want to accept, and yet the night before he had refused. Had been intimidated, almost revolted at the thought. Anxious.

 _Afraid_.

He'd been afraid of what his reaction would be should Ray strip him, touch him intimately.

Fear of failure wasn't something he could afford in his working life. To question, to throw doubts on his abilities would lessen them; limit him. Ray, he knew, had a similar philosophy—was gung ho in every endeavor he engaged in, from work to his personal life. He would expect the same from Fraser. He would respect the effort, at least, and so Fraser would try.

The afternoon included a frantic phone call from Officer Perry requesting Fraser gather some statistics he'd neglected to bring with him, and so the time passed all too quickly. Before Fraser knew it, Dief was raising his head at a familiar step in the hallway.

Fraser locked up Officer Perry's office and found Ray chatting with Constable Dailey, whose blush seemed to double when Fraser appeared. Fraser retrieved his hat, they made their farewells, and then Fraser was urging Ray out the door.

"In a hurry there, Frase?" Ray started up the GTO. The ubiquitous toothpick hung from the corner of Ray's all-too-kissable mouth, and Fraser found himself almost as tongue-tied as Dailey.

Ray chattered enough for the both of them on the drive over to Fraser's apartment. He was having a one-sided dialog with Dief about the way he'd been flirting with the Pekinese in 5-F, and mentioned something about the anatomical impossibilities thereof, which made Dief snort in disgust for human small-minded thinking.

Fraser half-listened, the rest of his mind taken up with berating himself for his lack of courage, because the closer they drew to the apartment the more Fraser's palms dampened and itched with sweat.

Ray seemed to be ignoring his nervousness. He pulled off his leather jacket, complained about Fraser's limited cable, and settled down on the couch with a beer he'd taken from the fridge and a pack of chips he'd carried up from the car. Fraser concerned himself with making coffee.

"You should get a turtle like Maximus," Ray said, munching. "You need a pet in here. Dief doesn't count—" Ray grinned at Dief's whine, "—he's a _roommate_ , not a pet."

"I think perhaps I'll get a frog instead," Fraser said, joking, but Ray surprised him by nodding in approval.

"I grew a frog from a tadpole, once. He was great, especially the way it was easy to feed him on flies and stuff from around the house."

"What was his name?"

"Leroy. Leroy the Frog." Ray smiled fondly and tipped back the rest of his beer. He crunched the can in his fist and then lay sideways on the couch, his boots already off.

It was nice seeing Ray so comfortable here, in Fraser's home. But the move was also something of an obvious invitation, and Fraser's nervousness returned.

He forced himself to take his cup over to the coffee table, and then sat on the edge beside Ray's knee. Fraser rested one hand on Ray's thigh. He could feel the damp heat of his palm melding into Ray's leg. Ray was staring up at him, his face open and trusting, his eyes already darkening.

Fraser wet his lips nervously, and then leaned down.

Ray rose up to meet him, a grateful noise escaping from his mouth just as it met Fraser's.

And then Fraser forgot why he was nervous, because this was already familiar—the taste of Ray and beer, and the playfulness of his mouth, his lips. Fraser kissed him until his lower back began to ache, and then he slid to his knees beside the couch, eager to do again what he'd done the night before—take Ray into himself, make him shiver and moan and say Fraser's name in that way unlike any other.

Losing no time at all, he unfastened Ray's jeans and bent to his task. He was getting better at this, he thought to himself as he went deeper onto Ray's cock. But the angle wasn't very good, and the pressure at the back of his throat was a little uncomfortable, so he shifted until he was facing Ray's feet, with one elbow braced on the other side of Ray's hips, trapping the bunching of his open jeans.

When Fraser pushed himself all the way down, until all of Ray's cock was within his mouth and throat, Ray whimpered, a beautiful sound, and came in a series of aborted jerks. Fraser coughed as he pulled away, and wiped the semen from his lips with the back of his hand as he swallowed.

"Christ, you killed me," Ray said. "Even better this time."

Fraser smiled, feeling a little smug. Just then his erection, neglected and trapped within his uniform pants, throbbed painfully. He was fully erect, excited just from kissing Ray and bringing him to orgasm. Fraser suppressed a groan and shifted his knees apart to get more comfortable.

Ray put his hand on Fraser's shoulder and pushed at him until he faced him once again.

"Kiss me?" Ray said, sounding a little lost.

"Gladly," Fraser murmured, leaning down. Ray licked at his mouth, along his lips, tasting himself, Fraser realized, before he thrust his tongue into Fraser's mouth. Fraser rested his elbow on the side of the couch so he could kiss Ray more deeply, kiss him until their taste was one, a mix of beer and Ray's come and the two of them. It was close to heaven.

Ray's hand, which had continued to rest on Fraser's shoulder, slid down to his chest, and he tugged at Fraser's tunic. He broke the kiss.

"Take this off, huh? You're looking like a lobster."

It was rather hot in Fraser's apartment, although he'd never found it so before. Fraser stood to more easily remove his tunic, leaving him in his undershirt, and then sat with his back to the couch to remove his boots. He froze momentarily when Ray touched his bare shoulder, and then Ray's fingers moved to the back of Fraser's neck, pushing into the hair there and sending shivers down Fraser's spine. He let his head drop forward in a silent plea, and Ray's fingers traveled upward, scratching lightly at his scalp.

"You like that, huh?" Ray said, sounding husky and strangely grateful. "I like it, too," he said, and now the sadness was plainly evident, and Fraser understood. He nodded once, to acknowledge the point, but then shook his head a moment later when Ray's hand slid down his side.

"C'mon. You've got to be hurting," Ray said uncertainly.

"Yes, I—" Fraser wanted to reassure Ray. "I need to—" It did hurt. His groin ached with a need for completion, something he hadn't felt for months. But he also felt a sense of dread at the thought of being naked, of Ray touching him there, and he knew as soon as he tried to let Ray do so, the need would slip away like heat through a chink in the wall.

Right now, though, it felt so strong. Without thinking, he put his hand down and covered himself. A gasp escaped him, and he felt Ray twitch behind him, an aborted movement. Ray understood, then.

"Why don't you...?" Ray's breathy suggestion brushed against Fraser's ear. He was close, but not touching. "Touch yourself, Frase. I'm right here."

Fraser shuddered, and under his palm his erection jerked hard at the thought. Close, but not too close. He could possibly do that. If Ray didn't touch him. If he only touched himself.

Fraser's breath heaved a little in his chest as he opened the fasteners on his pants, making enough room to slip his hand in and— _God_. Pleasure, elusive and dampened for these many months, surged through him. Even handling himself in the shower he hadn't felt any craving for more.

Fraser gripped himself harder and stroked once, pushing his foreskin down and then up again. He shuddered at the sensation.

"God, Fraser," Ray said, and Fraser was brought back to himself with a jolt, the awareness of Ray's eyes on him, of Ray's breath brushing gently against the side of his neck. God, Ray was watching him, watching the movement of his hand inside his pants.

Fraser found the thought incredibly arousing, but a little terrifying at the same time. Adrenaline washed through him, and the next stroke, and then the next, followed without conscious thought, his excitement such that even when Ray rested his chin on Fraser's shoulder, he didn't stop.

Normally he would be appalled at having himself observed in this act, but oddly it felt almost as if Ray was giving him permission to feel excitement, to enjoy this, his touch upon his own body. He panted out Ray's name, and then Ray kissed his shoulder, and Fraser let his head sink back against Ray's warmth, hand moving faster now in short, tight strokes, until finally he reached the summit, and went over into pure, electrifying pleasure.

"Oh, oh," Fraser heard himself crying out, as his long-starved body convulsed with the force of it. His hand now slid smoothly over himself as he made a last few gentle glides over his now-sensitive cock. He felt as if he could melt, his bones and flesh melding into one.

"That was so hot," Ray said, sounding relieved for some reason. Fraser let his head roll to the side, and Ray's lips were close, so he kissed them lazily, barely having the energy to open his mouth to Ray's tongue.

After a while, Fraser became self-conscious about his messy state—pants still half-open with his hand damp and sticky within. He forced himself to stand, his back turned toward Ray, and fasten himself up, and then went to the kitchen for a towel.

Ray was lying there, one hand idly rubbing his belly, the other holding his beer, when Fraser returned, a blush still burning his cheeks.

"Hey, think it's too late to catch a game?" Ray said, his voice perfectly normal. Fraser wanted to laugh with relief, but instead he nodded, and later, after they ordered Chinese food, he pretended not to notice when Ray let Dief steal his pot stickers straight from the carton.

///

The next few nights they were on stakeout, watching the domicile of one Thomas Lasorda and waiting for him to appear so they might arrest him for the illegal sale of pornography. It wasn't the selling of pornography that was illegal, Ray explained, but rather that these were pirated copies, duplicated without permission.

The FBI was very concerned, Ray continued, his face twisting in a grin that made Fraser want to do something entirely inappropriate for a work environment.

Unfortunately, with his duties at the Consulate and the two of them on stakeout in the evenings, there was no opportunity for Fraser to indulge in his desires, so he consoled himself by working out in detail exactly what he would do to Ray, given the chance, and in which position, and precisely how he would bring Ray to orgasm with his mouth and hands, and—Oh, dear.

Fraser took his Stetson from the dashboard and placed it in his lap.

"Got a little problem there, Frase?" Ray's glee was hardly covered by the mocking tone.

"Not at all, Ray," Fraser said as calmly as he could manage. "Oh, look, isn't that Mr. Lasorda?"

Indeed, with impeccable timing, Mr. Lasorda had made his appearance, in the company of what appeared to be a scandalously clad minor but turned out to be a Little Person, male, wearing a pink spangled dress and high-heel pumps. A feather boa completed the ensemble.

After Mr. Lasorda had been read his rights and taken to booking, Ray dictated the report. Fraser insisted on doing the typing in order to save time.

"What's your hurry?" Ray said, lounging one hip against the desk, close by Fraser's right hand.

Fraser chose not to respond, but later, once they were in Ray's apartment and he had Ray's narrow hips caught in his hands, he punished Ray for his teasing by trying the new trick he'd planned, swallowing around Ray while holding him deep in his throat.

Ray's whimpers were exactly as helpless and arousing as Fraser had hoped.

Afterward, Ray staggered away from the door, where Fraser had held him pinned, and made his way to his overstuffed sofa to fall flat on his back, one knee bent against the side. "You're a very bad Mountie," Ray said. "Come on over here."

Fraser delayed to remove his jacket and boots, and then walked over, his socks sliding on the wooden floor. He was tremendously aroused, but even as he approached, he felt the same uncertainty attack him, and his momentum fell asymptotically until he was hovering by the foot of the couch.

Ray shifted until he was squeezed against the sofa back, leaving a row of space in front of him. "Lie down, okay? Right here." Ray patted the cushion in front of him.

Fraser obeyed. To balk seemed unforgiveable, after the license Ray had granted him with his own body. The freedom to touch—Fraser's fears had begun to seem selfish. And Ray's relief and eagerness when Fraser settled on the couch, his back to Ray's front, seemed to emphasize the point.

"This okay?" Ray whispered, his hand sliding over Fraser's waist to press against his stomach.

Fraser swallowed harshly and nodded. His excitement had faded somewhat for not knowing what Ray's expectations were. What he wanted. Whether Fraser would be able to give it to him.

"Go ahead and do your thing," Ray said softly, encouragingly, and nuzzled the back of Fraser's neck.

"Oh," Fraser said in a small voice, because this was—the luxury of space and understanding. Ray was pressed against him, all along his back, like a shield of warmth, and Ray's mouth was moving tenderly on his neck, his hand set firmly against Fraser's stomach, but not trapping him. All of what he wanted, having Ray so close, but nothing intrusive or jarring.

Fraser unbuttoned his jeans, and Ray rewarded him with a kiss just below his hairline. Shivering a little, Fraser unzipped and pushed open his pants, then reached into the slot of his boxers and pulled himself out

The air was cool on the heat of his erection. Fraser pushed down his foreskin to feel it even better on his sensitive crown, and worried his thumb at the junction, that precise point where all sensation was the most vivid. He felt Ray's forearm flex where it crossed his own, and Fraser froze momentarily, feeling exposed.

But Ray did nothing but press a little more firmly on Fraser's abdomen, as if encouraging him with an innocuous touch.

Of course. Of course Ray would do nothing—he wouldn't harm Fraser, he wouldn't do anything to cause him discomfort, and this continuing trepidation was childish to the extreme. Self-indulgent.

Fraser forced himself to begin stroking himself, out in the open where the occasional drift of air added to the good sensations gathering in his cock. In addition, there was the press of Ray along his back, knees nudging the back of his thighs, and Ray's warm hand on his belly, moving with Fraser's increasing breaths. And Ray's lips and mouth on the sensitive back of his neck, nuzzling and licking—

After only a few minutes Fraser was once again trembling in the grips of his orgasm, this time with Ray's vocal encouragement in his ear—"Yeah, Fraser. Feels good, doesn't it? Let it go, c'mon, c'mon..."

When Fraser at last relaxed with a sigh, he was immediately aware that his emissions had spattered all over his stomach, some landing on Ray's hand. Dazed, Fraser took Ray's wrist and brought his hand up to lick it clean.

"Oh, man," Ray groaned softly. He pushed his hips forward a little and his groin pressed against Fraser's buttocks. Awkwardly, Fraser twisted his upper torso so he could give Ray a brief kiss.

"Thank you," Fraser whispered, knowing somehow that Ray would understand what a gift this was, to have this much—so much more than he could have imagined, just a few short months ago.

///

They continued their sporadic forays on the couch during evenings when work didn't interfere. Fraser grew more adventurous in exploring Ray's naked skin—the soft seam where his legs met his groin; his small, bronze nipples that seemed to appreciate Fraser's attentions; the smooth skin just beneath his balls where pressure from Fraser's fingers seemed to make Ray insane.

And Fraser no longer balked at being touched at his waist while he masturbated, even when Ray's hand slipped below his shirt and reached skin, fondling his abdomen in the same rhythm as he stroked himself, fingers dipping into his belly button. Then one night Ray wanted to hold his hand over Fraser's. It was erotic—having Ray's hand there, so close to his cock but not touching, squeezing Fraser's hand tighter around himself. He climaxed quickly that night.

It was obvious what Ray would push for next, and Fraser wasn't, he thought, very comfortable with the notion. He tried to give Ray as much pleasure as possible the following evening they were together, worshipping him where he sat in a kitchen chair and using his mouth and fingers until Ray begged him to end it, to bring him to completion. When Fraser was finished, Ray looked destroyed, shirt hanging off, his hair standing sideways and his lower lip red where he'd bitten at it. However, Ray didn't fall asleep as Fraser had hoped; instead, he rose stiffly from his seat and pulled Fraser up and into a kiss that made Fraser's toes curl.

Then he shucked off his jeans, leaving himself in his boxers, and sat Fraser down on the couch first, then pushed him down until he lay flat.

"Ray." Fraser struggled to sit up again. Ray let him after a moment, looking a little annoyed. "Not like this, please," Fraser said. "I need to sit up," he explained. His face felt flushed, but not with arousal.

"Okay," Ray said. "But then let _me—_ " He slipped one leg around Fraser's back, until he could straddle him from behind. Then he pulled Fraser against him so they could use the couch back for support.

If Ray's legs were spread surprisingly wide, he made no comment about discomfort, and Fraser rested against him, feeling easy. This was simply a variation of their usual position, and this way he could run his palm up and down Ray's thigh and ruffle the blond hairs growing there.

"You should take your pants off," Ray said. There was a question mark in his voice. Everything they said at these times were questions and answers; requests and acceptance, or directives and demurrals. It gave their talk a clinical quality that Fraser didn't like. It didn't feel like romance so much as a negotiation.

Not that they were romantic partners. At least, not in the traditional sense. Not yet. Because of these negotiations, and their necessity, everything hung undecided between them, and it was all Fraser's fault, really. He could hardly believe Ray bothered to come back each time.

Yet here he was, rubbing his hand on Fraser's jean-clad leg, patiently waiting as he had been.

"All right," Fraser said, a frog in his throat. He stood and did it quickly, before his emotions could rebel. He pushed off his jeans and boots, leaving him in his white socks and white briefs and Henley.

It was adequate. He was dressed enough; only his legs were bare. There was no reason to protest it.

He turned, and Ray gave him a smile. "You look goofy with your socks on."

Fraser crossed his arms. "My feet are cold."

"Yeah, right. Pull the other one." He stuck his leg out at Fraser, and Fraser laughed a little and grabbed it, pulling until Ray was nearly falling off the couch.

"Okay, okay! Uncle!" Ray yelled, in danger of landing his rear end on the carpet. Fraser released him, smiling in satisfaction, but during the moment of inattention, Ray lunged and wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him down.

They landed in an approximation of their earlier position, only Fraser was on one hip between Ray's legs, and Ray was too close to the edge of the couch. Together they squirmed back, and Fraser turned his head for a kiss.

He liked kissing Ray like this, liked feeling the sideways slip of their mouths at such an odd angle. But really, he liked kissing Ray any way he could.

After a while his neck grew a kink, and he turned forward again. This seemed to be Ray's signal to run his hand under the hem of Fraser's shirt to pet his stomach and sides. Fraser felt goose bumps rise on his skin, and his nipples hardened to points.

"We call this 'second base,'" Ray said, his hands going higher than usual, his right fingertips brushing against Fraser's nipple. It was a sweet sensation, but Fraser halted the progress of Ray's left hand before it could reach its destination, knowing what Ray would find. Even if he probably wouldn't feel the scar that distorted Fraser's nipple, Fraser didn't want to take the chance.

"It's all right," Ray said with resignation, a tone Fraser recognized from too many instances during the past weeks. His conscience warred with his discomfort until he released the pressure on Ray's hand. But Ray had already moved on, and was slipping his fingers under the band of Fraser's boxers.

Fraser's erection, which had flagged somewhat during their scuffle, renewed itself. Slowly, Fraser reached into his boxers and pulled himself out, in effect offering himself to Ray's touch.

"Yeah," Ray said, his breath brushing against Fraser's cheek. Fraser looked down in time to see Ray's hand approach and join his. Ray's thumb came over the top and rubbed gently at the foreskin covering the head of his penis.

Fraser shuddered.

"Let go," Ray said, and after a moment's hesitation, Fraser pulled his hand away. He gripped Ray's thigh instead, determined not to interfere.

And then Ray took hold of him fully, his long fingers wrapping all the way around, and Fraser let out a short moan, pitiful in volume, because it felt so _good_ to have Ray touching him, to have Ray's hand on him, gentle but strong. So much better than his own hand, his own touch. It was like flying.

At the same time, it felt a little like falling.

Ray stroked him as if he knew exactly what to do, as if he'd been watching closely all this time, because the rhythm was ideal, his grip confident and true, and the motion comfortingly familiar. Fraser sagged backward, letting Ray take his weight, and pushed up with his hips into the perfect strokes.

He carefully watched Ray's hand moving on him, watched the flex of Ray's forearm, a beautiful, erotic vision. It took only a few minutes for Fraser to rise to climax, and he squeezed Ray's leg as he came, as his cock spurted thick fluid over his belly and rucked up shirt, over Ray's hand.

"Dear God," Fraser muttered, shaken and disturbed by the intensity. A dull pain beat at the walls of his chest, and his stomach tightened with a sense of nausea.

Ray nudged him sideways, until he was resting at an angle against the side of the sofa, still within the circle of Ray's arm. When Ray bent to kiss him, Fraser kissed him back numbly, trying to respond.

Only a fool would ruin such a perfect moment.

///

The next day, Fraser woke from a disturbing dream, his body humming with alarm. As the morning passed, he was unable to shake the emotion; he felt disconnected, the freefall sensation returning, and when Ray called to ask him and Dief out for a picnic, Fraser made a feeble excuse and declined.

It turned out he was a fool after all—the week that followed proved it. Every time he reached for the phone, he found himself calling for Dief, instead, and taking him out for one long run after another, to Dief's vocal complaints. Even as Fraser told himself he was being childish and more than a little irrational, he couldn't make himself stop. When he tried to approach the problem logically, his mind veered away as quickly as his body.

He felt as if he had no control over either.

///

Fraser still showed up at the 27th for liaising, of course. And Ray—Ray seemed willing to give him the needed space, though at what cost, Fraser was afraid to consider. But outwardly Ray treated him the same, with casual grins and playful punches. If his face fell at the end of the day when Fraser told him he wanted to walk home, the stab of guilt Fraser felt was no more than he deserved.

The next week their assignment was Lily Kurana, an exotic dancer of some repute, who required protection against a murderous stalker. Fraser could see Welsh's surprise when Ray failed to protest vociferously against doing the protection detail; usually he considered such an assignment "baby-sitting" and not real detective work.

She was very beautiful, though, and there had already been one attempt on her life. Fraser consoled himself that the detail would be brief—the stalker's identity had already been determined, and it would simply be a matter of catching him at home or in the attempt.

"This, my dear lady, is what I call breakfast," Ray said as he entered the bullpen with Ms. Kurana by his side. "Boston Cream doughnuts and hazelnut coffee. Only the finest for our _very_ important person."

"Thank you so much, Detective Kowalski. But you'll be the ruin of my career." She patted her hips. From what Fraser could tell from his vantage point, they were bony enough to cut paper. She might benefit from a doughnut or two.

He was immediately ashamed of his train of thought, and bent his head back to the list of contacts he was supposed to be calling. So far none of them had had a clue as to Dennis Dellmeyer's whereabouts.

"Oh, I don't think so," Ray said appreciatively. "In my opinion, a doughnut couldn't find a happier place to die."

Fraser winced and picked up the phone.

///

They were forced to attend Ms. Kurana's performances, a duty that Ray complained about not in the slightest.

Fraser had to admit she was quite beautiful, with an honest sexuality about her that made him envious. She was comfortable in her skin, in being the object of desire. In spite of the somewhat seedy circumstances of the club, she glowed purely, and the people around her responded to her confidence.

Including Ray, who flushed beautifully and stared into his soda. It was painful to watch, and Fraser would have bowed out of his part of the detail if he could. Instead, the next day he put the best face on it he could and re-dialed his list of contacts.

This time, he detected a faintly nervous tone coming from Mr. Fannini, owner and proprietor of Fanni's Adult Film Emporium. Fraser pressed him until he broke out, "He'll kill me if it gets back to him. That Denny is a creepola, a real whack-job."

"It's our hope he'll serve time for attempted murder, Mr. Fannini. I assure you we won't reveal our source."

" _Mis_ ter Fannini. That's a good one. No one's called me that since Miss Stewman in seventh grade."

"Where did you see Dennis last?" Fraser asked patiently.

"Not me, but Manny said he saw Denny catching the triple-X marathon over at the Bijiou Theater."

"Excellent. Thank you kindly, Mr. Fannini."

When Fraser hung up the phone, Ray's attention was focused on him directly for the first time in days. The look reminded Fraser of nothing more than Diefenbaker when Fraser was about to throw him a haunch of caribou.

"We got him, Fraser?"

"We indeed got him, Ray. Mr. Dellmeyer is apparently attending the cinema."

"The cine-mah?"

"Yes, at the Bijiou Theater on North Wells."  
 _  
_"Oh. He's watching porn."

"So it would appear, Ray."

"Well, let's just see if we can arrange to pay Denny a social visit."

It took very little effort to convince Detectives Huey and Dewey to watch over Ms. Kurana temporarily while Fraser and Ray went to the Bijiou.

The endgame was something of an anti-climax, since they discovered Mr. Dellmeyer asleep in a theater seat with his pants open and his penis inserted through the bottom of a popcorn bucket. As a result, his attempt to escape was largely unsuccessful. In fact, they would have caught him instantly if Ray hadn't tripped over his own feet in laughter.

Ray escorted Mr. Dellmeyer out into the lobby with his hands cuffed behind his back and the unfortunate popcorn bucket still in place.

"Shouldn't we allow him to, er—" Fraser waved his hands.

"Nope," Ray said, pushing Dennis along smartly.

The charges were attempted murder and public indecency. And littering.

///

Afterward, Fraser was forced to watch Ms. Kurana bestow her grateful thanks all over Ray's cheeks and lips. He looked a little stunned when Fraser dragged him firmly away with lipstick marks on his face.

"You seemed quite taken with Ms. Kurana," Fraser said, admittedly a little tightly, as Ray drove him home from the precinct.

"She was very friendly," Ray said. There was a half-smile twisting his lips.

Fraser looked away.

"You got something to say?"

"No, Ray." Fraser scrubbed his eyebrow. "Well, yes. Aren't we—?"

"Aren't we what, Fraser?" Ray said evenly.

Fraser considered his word choice. 'Exclusive' seemed a little presumptive. On the other hand— "Aren't we seeing each other?" he asked in a rush.

" _I_ thought so. See, that's what I thought, Fraser, except I haven't been _seeing_ much of you lately."

"Ah."

"Yeah. 'Ah.'"

Fraser put his hand on Ray's leg. "I'm sorry about—I had some difficulties, for a short while there. I needed...time."

"And I gave it to you, didn't I?" Thankfully, Ray didn't shift away.

"God, yes. I'm very sorry—"

"I know, Frase. And it's okay. But, thing is, what now?"

"Well, I thought...perhaps I can see you tonight?"

Ray made an obvious show of pondering Fraser's offer. "Could be. Would that be the naked type seeing?"

Fraser felt his neck heat. "If you like."

"Oh, I like. I like."

"Good, then."

"Good."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Of course, when they got to Fraser's apartment, Dief insisted on being walked immediately. And then there was dinner to arrange, and French fries to be protected from Dief's insistent muzzle. It was comforting, and familiar, but afterward, once Dief was ensconced by the sofa watching an appallingly bad sitcom, Ray changed their usual routine.

Instead of letting Fraser approach him, Ray pushed Fraser toward the bedroom, a look of determination on his face.

"Ray?"

"I've been thinking about what you said, about _seeing_ each other," Ray said, stopping by the side of the bed. "Seems to me the seeing's mostly been on one side."

"Ray." Fraser trapped Ray's hands just as they caught the bottom of his Henley.

Ray went still and stared at him, head tilted slightly to the side. "We haven't talked about this. We didn't need to, I figured, because you've been coming around, and because I know you don't like talking about things. But I have to tell you, Frase, it's starting to bug me—it's starting to _hurt_."

"Ray, I said I'm sorry I—"

"No. No, let me say this. This I have to say, then you can—" Ray jerked his chin, "—do what you gotta do. Even if it means—even if. So, here's the thing." Ray's fists clenched under Fraser's hands. "I know she hurt you. I get that you need to...to be in control of things. But me, I need something, too."

Fraser's throat was dry as he swallowed. "What do you need, Ray?"

"Don't get me wrong—I like what you do for me. I like it a lot. But this one-sided thing, this thing where you get to make me feel good but you won't let yourself take anything from me—it makes me feel like a user. It makes me feel like a crappy lover. It makes me think—" Ray stopped and his eyes dropped, the corners turned down. "You don't need me back—for anything."

"I do, Ray," Fraser said automatically, urgently, his heart racing with panic. "I do need this. I need _you_."

But Ray didn't look reassured. He grimaced and said, "Then the only thing I can figure is you don't trust me not to hurt you. Like her."

"Oh, God," Fraser whispered, suddenly revolted at himself, at his selfishness. Ray looked—the expression was pain, not patience. His body spoke of yearning, not of desire. Making him feel pleasure wouldn't erase it, no matter how many times Fraser touched him with care and passion. None of that could cure this.

He'd been wrong. So terribly wrong.

"It isn't that I don't trust you, Ray. Not at all." But Fraser was helpless to explain the whiteout of panic that sometimes struck him. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Ray." Somehow his arms went up and he was hugging Ray, holding him. And he realized he hadn't done this—held Ray, just held him—since their first night.

"You hear what I'm saying?" Ray said shakily, and Fraser nodded, his cheek rubbing against Ray's hair.

"What do you need me to do?" Fraser whispered hoarsely.

Ray pushed him back. "Nothing. You have to do _nothing_. Let me, for once. You can stop me any time."

"That's not—I need to know specifics—" There was a pitiful whine to Fraser's voice, and he shut his mouth abruptly.

Ray smiled sadly, but didn't respond.

"Never mind, Ray. Forget I said anything."

"I plan to. Now, let's try this again." Ray reached for the bottom of Fraser's shirt, and this time Fraser forced himself to lift his arms, to let Ray tug it over his head.

Ray's eyes dropped down, and immediately veered to the left side of Fraser's chest, to where Fraser knew the scar, so obviously a set of teeth marks, cut across his nipple.

Fraser didn't cover it with his hand. He didn't turn away. But the effort to do neither made his whole body tremble in revolt. He was still shaking with the effort when Ray raised his hands and put them on Fraser's chest, brushing down with his palms until they covered both nipples.

"I hate her, you know that?" Ray said conversationally.

Fraser couldn't respond.

"Not just because of what she did, but because she did anything at all but love you like she should've. She was purely nuts, Fraser."

"You don't know—"

" _Nuts_." Ray moved his hands, sliding them down over Fraser's stomach, eyes staring at the same spot. "I'm all for digging her up and killing her all over again."

"All right. All right, Ray," Fraser said quietly, because Ray's hands were trembling, clenched into fists at Fraser's waist.

Ray looked up, blue eyes gone steel gray. "I'm going to make you feel good," he said fiercely, "I'm going to make you feel so good you forget your own fucking name."

And then Ray kissed him, mouth hot and pushy, lips and tongue soft and mobile and speaking of Ray's determination, of a passion so strong that Fraser felt a little dizzy, hardly able to kiss back at all.

Before he knew it he was stretched on his bed with Ray above him, still kissing him, his live-wire weight twisting on top of Fraser's body. His fierceness was always something Fraser had loved, had held so dear, and though it was directed at an unseen enemy, the love that caused it was for Fraser—it was his. He hadn't understood. He hadn't realized—stupid, really, because when was Ray ever patient? But all these weeks Ray had made himself wait, held himself back, willing to suppress his own need to the point of pain. All for him.

Ray was kissing his way downward now, and Fraser felt a momentary pang of visceral disgust when Ray's lips brushed his damaged nipple. He wanted to push Ray's head away, but instead let his hands lay limply by his sides. He had promised.

Sensation was deadened—the nerves were damaged. But they sparked a little anyway, under Ray's lips, under the firm stroke of his tongue. Still, Fraser was relieved when Ray switched to the other side. His attentions there were all pleasure, and Fraser gasped and arched his back to get more. His hand rose to stroke through Ray's spiky hair, trying to express his gratitude.

There was a muffled pop, and pressure on his waist from Ray's hand, and suddenly Fraser's fly was open and Ray was unzipping him. Raising himself to his knees, Ray gave him a look and then lifted Fraser's boxers and pants up and started pushing them down. After a moment, Fraser lifted his hips to assist, and Ray dragged them off altogether.

Fraser was naked, on his back.

But this wasn't his cot, and this wasn't the Consulate, and this was Ray staring down at him, taking him in. For the first time that evening Fraser felt arousal stirring, on the strength of Ray's eyes, on the need there, and the pleased surprise behind it.

"You're something else," Ray said.

A slight blush burned across Fraser's chest.

"I mean, I knew it, but it sure is nice to see." Ray slung himself down beside Fraser and trailed his fingers up Fraser's thigh, a tingling tease. When his hand closed on Fraser's half-erect cock, it felt like electricity striking. He hardened swiftly, and Ray gave a pleased chuckle, stroking him slowly.

"I'm gonna suck you so good, Fraser."

_No._

Fraser's blood froze, desire fleeing as swiftly as it had come. Ray was already kissing his way down Fraser's sternum, but he must have felt the change, because he lifted his head, looking worried. His hand still rested on Fraser's cock, soft now, shrinking in alarm.

She had spoken to him only once before the end. She had called him a bastard, but her eyes had begged him to make her stop, even though he couldn't. He'd been helpless, bound, drugged, and when her teeth had closed on him there, the pain and fear had unmanned him, had forced him to cry out at last.

"She b-bit me. She bit me," Fraser said, his voice too high, pleading Ray for understanding.

"I know," Ray said, sounding worried and confused. He brushed a finger across Fraser's damaged nipple.

"No. No." Fraser swallowed. "Not just there."

Ray's mouth opened silently. "Oh, no." His face twisted. "Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ," he whispered hoarsely, and Fraser saw the violence rising in his eyes. He grabbed Ray's wrist just before he tried to swing away, knowing Ray's next move would be to punch the wall or something equally self-damaging.

She shouldn't be allowed to do any more damage. She was dead.

Ray struggled against him in silence.

"She's dead," Fraser reminded him, holding firm. "Punching the wall won't do any good."

Ray stared at him, and in that moment Fraser felt something change within him, as if he'd needed the reminder himself.

"But she's still hurting you," Ray said, proving he was as smart as he was ever pretending not to be.

"We won't let her." With a deep breath, Fraser lay back down and brought Ray's hand back to his groin. He held himself still, waiting, and finally Ray settled back down beside him.

His kiss this time was gentle, not fierce. Tentative. "I thought I could fix it," Ray whispered brokenly against his lips.

"You can. You will," Fraser promised, determined that it be the truth. He nudged Ray with his cheek. "Go ahead. Please."

But Ray just kissed him again, for a long time, sly-tongued and tender. A better wisdom, Fraser thought, because after a while he found his breath going short, and his penis grew erect cradled within Ray's hand. He was feeling it—arousal, inspired by Ray's mouth and Ray's touch, and that was a good thing, a natural thing. It was all right to let Ray make him feel this way.

Finally Ray moved, the spikes of his hair brushing against Fraser's throat, against his chest, as Ray mouthed his way downward. He was rubbing his palm against Fraser's cock, massaging up and down. Ray paused to lick his palm, and when his hand returned it moved easily, bringing more pleasure with each stroke.

Ray paused, suspended over Fraser's groin, and stared down. Then Ray pushed down his foreskin, and Fraser knew the moment Ray had found the scar—Ray traced it gently with his thumb, his brow drawn into a frown.

 _Don't_. Fraser wanted to say. _Don't give it power._ But here, again, Ray was wise, because he bent and licked at the scar first, with just the tip of his tongue.

 _Ray's mouth. This is Ray's mouth,_ Fraser reminded himself, and truly it was nothing like before, because Ray's hand was exceedingly gentle, cupping him in place, and the soft flat of his tongue felt like heaven. Fraser watched the whole time as Ray's pink tongue licked and licked. Then Ray sucked with his lips just under the head, right at the junction that gave Fraser so much pleasure. With his other hand, Ray stroked his shaft from below, but at no point did he take more than the very tip of Fraser's cock into his mouth, and Fraser felt himself relaxing, his fists releasing from their aching clench at his sides.

Ray began stroking him faster, his mouth still sucking at the cap of Fraser's cock, tongue flicking into the slit at the top, and with a low cry Fraser came unexpectedly, with a sharp relief that it was over, it was done, and he throbbed again in Ray's hand, and his semen painted Ray's lips.

 _We did it,_ was Fraser's illogical thought, because really all he'd done was lie there, but that was what Ray had requested of him. And it was done.

Ray released him and shifted up to join him on the pillow. Fraser turned toward him and licked at Ray's lips, tasting himself for the first time in longer than he could remember.

"Thank you," Ray said, breaking the kiss. "That's what I—thanks."

"What about you?" Fraser said. "Shall I—?" Ray was still fully dressed—the incongruity of it struck Fraser only now. He was naked and Ray was clothed. Fraser couldn't even tell if he was aroused.

"Not this time. I got what I wanted." Ray's eyes were dark and unhappy.

"But I want to—"

"No. Shh. Listen," Ray said. He pulled Fraser into a hug, and Fraser obliged, wrapping his arm around Ray's back, warm under his T-shirt. "It's going to take me a little while to stop being so damned angry," Ray said. "Right now, I don't feel like coming. I feel like killing someone."

"All right, Ray." Fraser felt helpless to fix it. "I wish I could help."

Ray gave a wry laugh. "Now you know what it feels like."

He did. Fraser understood, finally. "She hurt us both."

"Yeah, that's the point of it, exactly. She hurt us both."

"But not anymore."

"No, not anymore."

Ray pulled away long enough to shed his shoes and pants and T-shirt, and then returned to slip into Fraser's arms.

Fraser held on tight. In all the times they'd been together, they'd never slept together like this, close and entwined. Ray had been determined to give Fraser all the space and time he needed to recover. Too determined, perhaps, and Fraser was grateful for it. But that time had passed, and now he had no need of space.

Between them, he found he wanted none at all.

///

 __ **Epilogue  
** **  
**There was a note stuck to the handset of Fraser's new phone.

The phone was a gift from Ray. He'd insisted on purchasing it in exchange for the apartment key Fraser had removed from his hat one evening and awkwardly handed over.

The invasions commenced almost immediately. Fraser was no longer surprised to come home to constant changes and additions. The cheap shower curtain was replaced with one depicting Steve McQueen in _Bullit_. A small tank appeared with a tadpole swimming inside. A coffeemaker grew in the kitchen, with a bag of M &Ms leaning beside it.

Fraser's favorite was the new couch pillows, which on more than one occasion were used to cushion Ray's knees as he pleasured Fraser. Their repertoire of lovemaking had expanded somewhat, but Ray seemed to like this act more than anything else—would spend long minutes loving Fraser with his mouth, eyes closed dreamily as he sucked and sucked.

Fraser had to admit he was fond of it, as well. But more, he liked throwing the pillows on the floor and taking Ray there, spreading open his long legs and leaning over for kisses while he moved within Ray's warm, tight grasp. Fraser still couldn't believe how much Ray seemed to enjoy it, but the sounds he always made—

Fraser shook his head; visions of their lovemaking were becoming a terminal distraction. He walked over to the phone and plucked up the note.

_Fraser—_

_I've programmed in Vecchio's new number. He and Stel have moved to the Keys._

_I think they're wasting away in Margaritaville._

_You promised you'd call, remember? Don't make a liar out of you._

_-R  
_

Fraser blew out a sigh. Truly, it had been a long time since he'd spoken to his old partner and beloved friend. There was really no reason not to make the call right now. No reason at all.

Taking a deep breath, Fraser picked up the phone.

 

.......................  
2008.08.25


End file.
